Ancient History
by sportsnightnut
Summary: Written for sweetjamielee's "Everything Changes" 2014 Ficathon. Will thinks about Sunday mornings.


**A/N:** A short little fluffyish one-shot written for sweetjamielee's "Everything Changes" ficathon over at LiveJournal. I know it's short, but I love it and wanted to share it, and I didn't think you guys would mind a little fluff this morning :) Written from Will's POV.

Prompt, from Anon: Will/Alicia, Sunday mornings.

* * *

Mondays used to be my favorite day of the week. I was never much for Fridays like everyone else. Sure, I liked going home, ordering a pizza, and watching a movie or the Orioles game. But I _lived _for Mondays. The start of the work week. My alarm would go off and I'd be full of adrenaline, ready to get my hands on a new case or battle it out in court with the likes of Patti Nyholm or Matan Brody.

I'd wake up every morning, ready to go, prepared to take on whatever the world threw my way.

That is, until Alicia Cavanaugh came back into my life and my world started spinning in an entirely new direction.

She's been back in my life for the past five years as Alicia Florrick, because she, unfortunately, married that stupid prick she met in law school, something I never quite understood. I suppose it was a little my fault, since I never actually professed my feelings for her (and maybe she would've married me instead), but that's all ancient history now.

Because she's Alicia Cavanaugh again, and this time, I didn't screw it up.

It must have been that whole getting-shot-and-almost-dying-in-a-courtroom that made the whole thing happen, and both of us wish, although we try not to mention it out loud, that it hadn't taken something so dramatic to do so.

But that's also ancient history, because my shoulder has healed, so with the exception of how often I squeeze Alicia's hand to make sure she's real or the times she whispers "I'm so glad you're here," which carries a weightier meaning, we've mostly put it behind us.

I'm just grateful I get to wake up every morning, and that when I do, she's right there next to me.

Which brings me to my next point: I hate Mondays.

I feel like I'm a part of the club now, the club that includes everyone else on the planet who dreads Mondays. Don't get me wrong—I love my job, and I still love defending my clients and kicking ass in court—but I've started to appreciate the little things in life way more.

Sundays are my favorite day of the week now, especially Sunday mornings. I always wake before her, purposely, so I can admire the way she looks, all curled up and peaceful and Alicia. Sometimes I'll sneak out of bed to get the coffee started, then crawl back under the covers with her. I try not to wake her before she's ready, because if there's anything I learned at Georgetown and never forgot, it's that Alicia Cavanaugh is not, never has been, and never will be a morning person. And Sundays are her only reprieve from the early wake-up calls, because sometimes she has to go to work on Saturdays, or run errands, or just deal with _life_, but Sunday mornings are all her own. And now they're ours.

On this particular morning, she wakes a little after 8, rolls over, and immediately snuggles into me. I wrap my arm around her and kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair, which always smells like raspberries, and I feel her smile against my chest.

"Morning," she whispers, her voice coated in sleepiness.

"Good morning, sunshine," I tease her, and she chuckles.

"You made coffee," she observes, and I nod in confirmation.

Alicia's quiet for a few minutes as she rests in my arms, waking up slowly. She rolls back over and stretches, yawning, and I think for a moment how happy I am I get to see her like this, pajamas and messy hair and sleepy eyes.

"Pancakes?" she asks, now sounding more awake, although she's still speaking in short sentences.

"Bacon?" I respond, and she nods. "Let's go."

I follow Alicia to the kitchen, where she removes two mugs from the dishwasher and fills them with coffee, passing one to me. I start grabbing the dry ingredients as she rustles around in the fridge for eggs, bacon, and milk, and she smiles at me as I pull measuring cups from a drawer.

"I like this," she says, wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head against my chest. I hug her back, noting that the top of her head sits perfectly under my chin.

"I like this too," I tell her, knowing that the meaning of those three words is much larger than a coffee-and-pancakes Sunday morning. It's about us, finally getting to share our lives together, and it doesn't matter if we should have done it twenty years ago or not.

Because we get to do it now, and that's all that matters.


End file.
